


Sometimes Faith Is An Open Road

by Claire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feral!Peter, Implied Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:56:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Peter goes feral and Chris isn't prepared to let him go</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Faith Is An Open Road

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by Temaris, who saved you from everything apart from British spelling.

In hindsight, it wasn't exactly how Chris envisioned everyone finding out. It's not that he expected that he could keep it a secret from everyone forever. Being part of the pack, and as much as it pains Chris to admit it he and Allison _are_ part of the pack, means wolves with heightened senses, and he's surprised that someone hasn't smelled them on each other before now. But they'd been careful, never meeting on days when they knew there was going to be a pack meeting, arranging trysts in the motel on the edge of town that charged by the hour.

He'd at least wanted to tell Allison first, to ease her into it, the idea of the two of them together. But he hadn't planned on Beacon Hills being Beacon Hills, and he sure as hell hadn't planned on the group of hunters that had come to town, intent on showing their displeasure at the Argents working with the enemy.

Chris had held a flicker of hope that the night would end without bloodshed. That he and Allison would be able to talk the self-proclaimed leader of the other group down, persuade him to leave without violence. He'd hoped that they'd be able to resolve it all without involving the rest of the pack, all waiting across the other side of the preserve, prepared to defend their territory should it be needed.

If the knife that had embedded itself in the tree trunk next to Allison's head hadn't been an indication the night wasn't going to go exactly as Chris had wanted it to, then the way the _Argent--_ had been sneered out certainly was. But even if the rest of the hunting world thought him tainted, thought them beyond redemption, it didn't change the fact that they were still Argents. Didn't change that they were still able to take out a pissant group of arrogant bastards who'd had the audacity to come into their home and threaten what was theirs.

The fight itself had been short and bloody, and Chris hates that his daughter can put an arrow through someone without blinking, hates that there's part of him that's proud of the fact that he's the one who taught her. The only casualty on their side had been Chris' jacket, sliced open down one arm and tacky with Chris' blood when he hadn't moved out of the way of a knife quick enough.

The smell of cordite was still in the air when Chris finally looked at the remaining two left standing, one of them very carefully not putting weight on his left leg thanks to an arrow through his thigh. Fingers had tightened around guns, and Chris could see the one to his right trying to decide whether to go for him or Allison first, thinking about it right up until the triumphant howls had rang through the trees, telling Chris exactly where the rest of the trespassers had gone.

"Guess the rest of you didn't fare so well, either."

Chris probably should have told Allison to be more gracious in victory but, honestly, it was politer than what he'd been about to say.

It was only after he believed that they absolutely understood that the pack wouldn't be as lenient next time that Chris had let the other group leave, watching impassively as the two of them had dragged their mainly still-unconscious colleagues away.

There'd been a smile on Allison's lips when she'd turned to him, her hand already reaching into her pocket to retrieve the phone that was steadily beeping at her, a frown crossing her face as she'd read the screen.

"Ally?" Because Chris had been in this game long enough to know that the look on his daughter's face never led to anything good.

"We need to go to Deaton's."

The text message from Scott had told them that was where the others were heading, that it was where they were having to take Peter, but no explanation as to why.

Stiles' jeep is already outside Deaton's when they get there, parked at an angle and passenger door wide open.

Allison reaches in, fingertips trailing over the obvious claw marks ripped into the leather of the seat.

"Dad, what--"

But Allison doesn't get to finish her thought, not when the angry howl coming from inside Deaton's cuts her off so abruptly.

They're through the doors to the clinic in seconds and Chris isn't exactly sure what he'd expected once they got inside, but it wasn't this, wasn't a feral half-wolf snarling and snapping and trapped in a circle in the middle of Deaton's back room.

The wolf is barely recognisable as Peter, as it growls and spits and tests the mountain ash barrier every few seconds.

"What happened?" Chris is glad the words come from Allison, because he doesn't think he can speak right now, not when Peter's gaze is sliding over him like he doesn't even know who Chris is.

"They shot him," Derek replies, his hand reaching out to where Stiles is carefully cleaning blood away from a slash across Derek's side, wrapping his fingers around the teen's wrist and rubbing his thumb against Stiles' skin.

"We can smell wolfsbane and mistletoe," Scott adds, raising his voice to be heard over the now constant snarl, "along with something else."

"Something else?" Chris' eyes are drawn back to Peter, and he can see the matted fur on one shoulder and again on Peter's side and across his chest. The congealed blood is glinting slightly in the harsh glare of the lights where it hasn't yet dried, and each new patch that Chris is noticing has him wishing that he'd just shot the bastards in the forest, instead of letting them leave.

"Yeah, something that caused this." Scott motions to where Peter has finally stopped pacing, finally stopped testing the barrier, to stare directly at Chris. His nose is twitching slightly, and Chris wonders exactly what he's smelling, whether it's the forest or the blood or something else entirely.

"We were lucky that we managed to take him down before he bolted." Derek ignores the snort and muttered _yeah, lucky_ from Stiles, as he takes a clean rag from Deaton.

Chris doesn't know what it took to bring Peter down. Peter may be a beta now, but he had been an alpha once, has age and experience on every other wolf in the room. He might have gone down, but he hadn't gone down easily, the sluggishly bleeding claw marks across Derek, Scott, Isaac _and_ Cora tell Chris that.

Derek may be trying to hide it, but Chris has had a lifetime of reading other people, of seeing exactly what they didn't want him to (he ruthlessly squashes the thoughts of his own family), and he can tell that the wolf is worried, scared almost. The glances Derek keeps shooting Peter are shouting it out to the entire room. Chris knows that Peter isn't exactly the man he was before the fire, before Gerard had sent Kate in like an avenging angel, but he's still Derek's uncle, still Derek's family, and Chris has watched them both edge closer to a balanced relationship with each passing day.

Chris knows how it feels, to watch Peter like the other shoe is going to drop any minute now. But if Peter still isn't the man he was before, then he sure as hell also isn't the man he was straight after, vengeance and hate wrapped in claw and fur. He's not the old Peter, but he's a lot closer than Chris thinks any of them would like to admit.

The Peter who had laughed more freely and touched more easily; who had grinned at Chris when Chris pinned him to the bed. The Peter he'd been before Gerard had found out. Before Victoria, before Allison, before the fire. Before everything they'd had the potential to be had been burned away in a single act.

There's history written on their skin. Hard, sharp words that joined them together like jagged pieces of rock. Chris had spent so long waiting for the edges to tear at him that it had taken him a while to realise that they weren't so sharp any more. That they'd been worn down by time and touch and attrition, until they fit. And that's what Chris has been trying to deny ever since he realised it. That Peter's slotted himself into back Chris' life in a way Chris never thought he'd feel again. That Peter fits. That Peter's _always_ fitted.

Chris is moving before the thought is out of his head, the yelled out _Dad!_ reaching him just as he crosses the line of mountain ash, careful not to break it.

He sees Allison reaching out for him, but Peter is there first, closing the distance between him and Chris in the time it takes Scott to pull Allison back. The wolf is snarling, lips curled around teeth that can rend flesh from bone, and there's a moment where Chris thinks this may be the single, most fucking stupid thing he's done in all of his years.

Claws flash in front of him and pinpricks edge at his throat. All it would take is one move, one slight motion and it'll all be over. But the wolf isn't moving, blue eyes looking at him now like he's less like prey and more like _Chris_.

Chris brings his arm up slowly, telegraphing each move in every way he knows how, until his hand is against Peter's cheek, fur that's softer than it looks under his touch. And Chris can feel each breath balled up inside of him, heavy and solid and unwilling to leave his body.

The moment stretches and the breath only leaves him when the sharp points at his throat morph into warm fingertips, the wolf pulling back to leave Peter, naked and shaking as black blood bubbled out of too many bullet holes in his body.

"C'ris--" The slur is just audible as Peter stumbles, barely giving Chris time to catch him as Peter's legs give out, Chris' arms around him as he lowers them both to the floor.

Deaton is there before Chris' ass even hits the ground, wolfsbane in one hand and a lighter in the other. Peter barely twitches as each of the wounds is treated, the smell of burning flesh overwhelming the room as Deaton works.

"Alan?" Because Peter hasn't moved in Chris' arms, and only the fact that he can actually feel Peter still breathing is stopping Chris from completely panicking.

"He's fine." Deaton doesn't look up from where he's holding the lighter against Peter's skin, and Chris watches the bubble and hiss of the powder before the final wound in Peter's flesh starts to close.

When Deaton pulls back, all that's left of the bullet wounds is patches of reddened skin, the colour steadily fading out of them. Peter's pale, too pale, and the black edging his veins is still visible, but at least it feels as though his breathing is easing out.

"I've set up the couch."

Chris looks up at Scott's words, eyes flicking over to the couch in the waiting room, blanket laid across it and another over the back. It's not ideal, but it's better than the floor, better than the cold steel table currently pushed up against the wall. It takes longer than Chris would like to admit, balancing himself and Peter, wincing slightly as he stands and feeling a soft tug against the skin on his forearm as the cut from the fight reopens. His arm is the only thing keeping Peter steady until Derek steps closer, waiting until Chris nods at him before scooping Peter up like a child. And that, more than anything, tells Chris how exhausted Peter must be. That Peter is currently being carried by Derek, curled naked against his nephew's chest, and not even fighting it but, instead, is almost burrowing into Derek's warmth.

He's barely taken a step to follow them, to walk out to where Derek is laying Peter on the couch, gentler than he's ever seen Derek be with his uncle, when the hand on his arm stops him.

"Jacket off," Allison says, not even giving Chris the opportunity to argue before she turns away, reaching for the first aid kit someone has retrieved from somewhere in Deaton's office.

"Allison--"

"Jacket. Off," she repeats, pulling out gauze and tape as the others leave them, Scott hesitating until Allison smiles at him and nods.

Chris hears the chime of Deaton's door echoing softly as the murmur of voices die away, the rest of the pack scattering back to various places. He can still hear the quiet tones of Stiles, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough that Chris can't make out the actual words. He knows that if Stiles is still here, it means Derek hasn't left, is still outside in the waiting room where Peter is currently lying. Chris isn't sure if he's surprised or not that Derek's stayed, and there's part of him that wants to be out there, making sure that all Derek's doing is watching Peter and not working out where to strike while he's most vulnerable. He wants to be out there, but Allison is looking at him, pointedly staring at the jacket that he's still wearing until he slides it off, unable to stop the grimace from reaching his face as the fabric tugs at partially dried blood, heavy and tacky against his skin. Chris can feel the chill in the room now that he's just in a t-shirt, gooseflesh rising on his skin as Allison pulls yet another package out of the first aid kit.

"I don't know if I could have done that, if it was Scott." She opens the bandage, wrapping it around his arm with an air of experience he wishes she didn't have. "I don't know if I would have trusted him not to kill me, not in the way you just trusted Peter."

He can tell it hurts her to say those words, voice low and careful like it always is when she's trying to hold herself together. And Chris knows what he should say, platitudes about love and strength, but he's lied to her too much about this already. Maybe not with words and maybe not to her face, but definitely by omission.

"I didn't." The words come easier than he'd thought they would.

"Dad?"

"I didn't know that he wouldn't kill me, not for definite." Because they've never put words to this, to what they are. There's history there, neither of them will deny they have a past, and there's certainly a right now, etched out with Chris' fingers in Peter's hair and the way Peter moves under him. But a future? The only future they've spoken about is snatched out words about where they're going to meet next, about whose turn it is to pay for the motel room.

"Then what were you thinking?" And Chris loves how much Allison sounds like Victoria when she's like this, scared and angry and righteously indignant all wrapped up together.

"Sometimes, Ally.” He reaches out and cups her cheek, resting his forehead against hers for a brief moment. "Sometimes, you've just got to have faith."

"In Peter Hale?" The huff of laughter is only slightly incredulous.

"Believe me, it shocked the hell out of me, too." Especially with what's gone between them. With the fire, with Katie, with Gerard. And it's not that Chris is ignoring it, anything but, not with his sister's blood under Peter's fingers and the devastation of an entire family against theirs. But maybe it's time to move on, to stop looking at the past and start admitting that Peter is part of his future. To start admitting that Chris _wants_ Peter to be part of his future, instead of a quick fuck every few days, weighed down with the concern that someone's going to find out where he's been going, who he's been meeting.

Any reply Allison might have given is swallowed by Stiles' half-yelled _He's waking up!_ followed by a soft groan Chris recognises as Peter.

Chris is out of the back room and across the waiting area in a few quick steps, crouching down by the couch and reaching out to run his fingers through Peter's hair. The strands are damp with sweat and Chris knows Peter would hate it if he could see the tufts sticking up in all directions.

"How are you feeling?" Chris asks once his gaze is pinned with blue, Peter's eyes heavy and tired, like he's fighting to stay awake.

"Like shit," comes the reply, rough and low and sounding as though Peter's been screaming for hours.

Chris pulls his hand from Peter's scalp, smirking softly at the small noise of displeasure that he's pretty sure Peter doesn't even know he's making. He runs his fingers gently down Peter's arm until Peter's fingers are tangled with his, palm warm against Chris'.

"What the hell did they shoot me with?" Peter sounds more annoyed at the fact that they actually managed to shoot him instead of that he almost died.

"Wolfsbane, mistletoe and a little something extra we haven't been able to identify yet." It's Derek who answers, pushing himself away from the wall as he walks into Peter's line of sight. Stiles hangs back, fingers wrapped around the reception counter as he leans against it.

Peter's fingers tighten against Chris' for a brief moment, before Chris sees him take a breath, feeling him relax his grip as he forces himself to release the tension. Chris wishes he knew what Peter was thinking at that moment, because he doesn't know if it's that Derek was there when Peter was unconscious and didn't try anything, or that Derek's looking at them both, with Chris' hand wrapped around Peter's, and Chris isn't pulling away. He wishes he knew because he hates going in blind and he wants to know exactly what Peter's going to comment about first.

"Christopher?" Peter looks pointedly at their joined hands, before his eyes flick to Derek. The second one, then. Which means either Peter's going to wait until he's alone to have the freak-out about Derek not going directly for his throat, or he and Derek are further along in rebuilding their relationship than Chris had thought. Peter's pushing himself up, carefully swinging his legs over the side of the couch, keeping hold of the blanket to protect his modesty (although Chris guesses that's more for Stiles' benefit than his or Derek's) and manoeuvring so he isn't on his back in front of Derek any more. Chris doesn't point out that he does it all without ever letting go of Chris' hand.

"Care to explain?"

Only, where does Chris start? _I couldn't let you die--_ or _You knew it was me--_ or even three words that Chris didn't realise he still felt until he found himself stepping inside a ring of mountain ash.

But, in the end, he's saved from saying anything, words stopped before they even leave his lips by Stiles moving to stand beside Derek, grinning down at Peter as he does so.

"You got shot, wolfed out, went feral and only calmed down when Mr Argent petted you," Stiles comments, his grin widening as Peter slowly turns to look at Chris.

"I didn't _pet_ you--"

A raised eyebrow is the only answer Chris gets as Stiles continues.

"So, yeah. Wolf. Growl. Petting. Pretty much in that order. Which means we now all officially know that the two of you are boning each other so you can stop trying to hide it. Also, no need to thank us for saving your life." By the time Stiles finally stops talking, Derek's got a hand across his eyes, but is still turned towards Stiles, like he's not entirely sure whether to be embarrassed as hell or ridiculously turned on. Chris glances at Peter and is more than half tempted to tell Derek that he knows exactly how he feels and maybe they should go out for a drink one night to commiserate.

Peter closes his eyes, and Chris can almost hear him counting to ten in his head. The serene look is back on Peter's face by the time he opens his eyes again, looking at Stiles. "Thank you, Mr Stilinski, it would appear that I'm in your debt. I'm sure my nephew will be more than happy to pick that one up for me."

Apparently the raised eyebrow runs in the family.

The silence spans out and Chris can tell that Stiles is itching to say something, recognises the barely repressed energy coming from the boy who's rarely still and rarely quiet. The silence isn't broken by Stiles, though, it's broken by Derek.

"I'm-- glad you're not dead."

Chris knows everyone heard the pause, even if no one's mentioning it. And he's not sure exactly what it took Derek to say that, but he knows it cost him something.

Peter doesn't say anything, just watches his nephew for long moments before nodding once. And whatever Derek sees in that action makes the tension drain from his shoulders. He turns away from Chris and Peter, glancing at Stiles, before wrapping his fingers around the ones that are beating a steady tattoo against Stiles' thigh and pulling him towards the door. Stiles doesn't protest, following Derek without issue, letting Chris ignore the way the door closes on Stiles' comment that he _wants to see them kissing because it'll be hot--_ Chris, like Peter, is happy for Derek to pick that one up.

"So--" Peter's looking at him, face softer now that they're the only two there.

"Yes?" He knows what's coming, can feel it in every amused line of Peter's body.

"Petting? Really?" And there it is.

"It wasn't 'petting', Peter." It _wasn't_.

"I don't know, Stiles seemed awfully convinced, and his heartbeat didn't stutter once." There's a teasing lilt to Peter's tone that Chris doesn't hear often enough.

"Fine," he huffs, "there may have been some petting involved. _Some_."

Peter smiles, amused and triumphant in one easy motion, lighting his face in a way that Chris will never tire of seeing. He's about to reply, to comment that Peter has never minded Chris petting him before when Peter's body tightens, claws nudging at Chris' skin as they extend. And Chris doesn't need to follow Peter's gaze to know he's looking into Deaton's back room, looking at the now smudged ring of mountain ash and the mixture of blood and forest they've left on the floor.

"I could have killed you." Peter isn't looking at Chris when he speaks.

"But you didn't."

"I _could_ \--"

"Peter." Chris cuts him off, two fingers on Peter's cheek turning his head so he's facing Chris. "You didn't."

He doesn't let Peter reply, pushing himself up from his knees (and quietly cursing the fact that he's not twenty any more), and tapping Peter on the arm. "Move over."

Wrapping the blanket around him, Peter moves, letting Chris sit next to him. Tugging Peter towards him, Chris shifts, shuffling his ass down the couch and bringing his legs up until he's lying down, booted feet dangling over the arm and Peter on top of him, the blanket covering them both. Peter's skin is warm against his where they're touching, heat seeping through the t-shirt barrier between them.

"You know," Peter says, conversationally, "if you wanted me naked and on top of you, all you had to do was ask."

"Shut up, Peter."

Chris will never object to Peter naked and on top of him, but it's been a hell of a day and he's currently on a couch that's far too small for two grown men because he can't face standing up and making the drive back to his. (Even though it would actually be to Peter's, because Peter's is closer and has the added advantage of not having Allison, whose probably waiting at home with a list of _wheres_ and _hows_ and _whys_.)

"Yes, dear." Peter moves slightly, shifting to a better position and sliding a hand under Chris' t-shirt to rest on his stomach.

Peter's breathing eases out quickly after that and Chris wonders what Gerard would say if he saw them now, if he saw how easy a wolf fell asleep in his son's arms. Wonders what his father would say if he knew how right it felt to Chris having Peter there.

"Stop thinking, Chris," Peter murmurs, words muffled against Chris' chest and obviously not as asleep as Chris had thought.

"Yes, dear," Chris answers, echoing Peter's earlier words and feeling the puff of laughter through his t-shirt in response, even if he can't hear it.

There's probably only going to be a handful of hours before the rest of the pack come spilling back through the door, so Chris closes his eyes. All the other questions can be answered in the morning.


End file.
